‘What is it then?’ said the Duke, who in truth understood it all nearly as well as the Duchess herself.
‘It is hard to explain, but it is very heavy.’
‘Responsibility, my dear, will always be heavy.’
‘But it is hardly that; – certainly not that alone. It is the feeling that so many people blame him for so many things, and the doubt in his own mind whether he may not deserve it. And then he becomes fretful, and conscious that such fretfulness is beneath him and injurious to his honour. He condemns men in his mind, and condemns himself for condescending to condemn them. He spends one quarter of an hour in thinking that as he is Prime Minister he will be Prime Minister down to his fingers’ ends, and the next in resolving that he never ought to have been Prime Minister at all.’ Here something like a frown passed across the old man’s brow, which was, however, no indication of anger. ‘Dear Duke,’ she said, ‘you must not be angry with me. Who is there to whom I can speak but you?’
‘Angry, my dear! No, indeed!’
‘Because you looked as though you would scold me.’ At this he smiled. ‘And of course all this tells upon his health.’
‘Do you think he is ill?’
‘He never says so. There is no special illness. But he is thin and wan and careworn. He does not eat and he does not sleep. Of course I watch him.’
‘Does his doctor see him?’
‘Never. When I asked him once to say a word to Sir James Thorax, – for he was getting hoarse, you know, – he only shook his head and turned on his heels. When he was in the other House, and speaking every night, he would see Thorax constantly, and do just what he was told. He used to like opening his mouth and having Sir James to look down it. But now he won’t let anyone touch him.’
‘What would you have me do, Lady Glen?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you think that he is so far out of health that he ought to give it up?’
‘I don’t say that I don’t dare to say it. I don’t dare to recommend anything. No consideration of health would tell with him at all. If he were to the to-morrow as the penalty of doing something useful to-night, he wouldn’t think twice about it. If you wanted to make him stay where he is, the way to do it would be to tell him that his health was failing him. I don’t know that he does want to give up now.’
‘The autumn months will do everything for him; – only let him be quiet.’
‘You are coming to Matching, Duke?’
‘I suppose so, – if you ask me, – for a week or two.’
‘You must come. I am quite nervous if you desert us. I think he becomes more estranged every day from all the others. I know you won’t do a mischief by repeating what I say.’
‘I hope not.’
‘He seems to me to turn his nose up at everybody. He used to like Mr Monk; but he envies Mr Monk, because Mr Monk is Chancellor of the Exchequer. I asked him whether we shouldn’t have Lord Drummond at Matching, and he told me angrily that I might ask all the Government if I liked.’
‘Drummond contradicted him the other day.’
‘I knew there was something. He has got to be like a bear with a sore head, Duke. You should have seen his face the other day, when Mr Rattler made some suggestion to him about the proper way of dividing farms.’
‘I don’t think he ever liked Rattler.’
‘What of that? Don’t I have to smile upon men whom I hate like poison; – and women too, which is worse? Do you think that I love old Lady Ramsden, or Mrs MacPherson? He used to be so fond of Lord Cantrip.’
‘I think he likes Lord Cantrip,’ said the Duke.
‘He asked his lordship to do something, and Lord Cantrip declined.’
‘I know all about that,’ said the Duke.
‘And now he looks gloomy at Lord Cantrip. His friends won’t stand that kind of thing, you know, for ever.’
‘He is always courteous to Finn,’ said the Duke.
‘Yes; – just now he is on good terms with Mr Finn. He would never be harsh to Mr Finn, because he knows that Mrs Finn is the one really intimate female friend whom I have in the world. After all, Duke, besides Plantagenet and the children, there are only two persons in the world whom I really love. There are only you and she. She will never desert me, – and you must not desert me either.’ Then he put his hand behind her waist, and stooped over her and kissed her brow, and swore to her that he would never desert her.
But what was he to do? He knew, without being told by the Duchess, that his colleague and chief was becoming, from day to day, more difficult to manage. He had been right enough in laying it down as a general rule that Prime Ministers are selected for that position by the general confidence of the House of Commons; – but he was aware at the same time that it had hardly been so in the present instance. There had come to be a deadlock in affairs, during which neither of the two old and well-recognized leaders of parties could command a sufficient following for the carrying on of a government. With unusual patience these two gentlemen had now for the greater part of three Sessions sat by, offering but little opposition to the Coalition, but of course biding their time. They, too, called themselves, – perhaps thought themselves, – Cincinnatuses. But their ploughs and peaches did not suffice to them, and they longed again to be in every mouth, and to have, if not their deeds, then even their omissions blazoned in every paragraph. The palate accustomed to Cayenne pepper can hardly be gratified by simple salt. When that deadlock had come, politicians who were really anxious for the country had been forced to look about for a Premier, – and in the search the old Duke had been the foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more than the truth when she declared that her husband’s promotion had been effected by their old friend. But it is sometimes easier to make than to unmake. Perhaps the time had now in truth come, in which it would be better for the country that the usual state of things should again exist Perhaps, – nay, the Duke now thought that he saw that it was so, – Mr Gresham might again have a Liberal majority at his back if the Duke of Omnium could find some graceful mode of retiring. But who was to tell all this to the Duke of Omnium? There was only one man in all England to whom such a task was possible, and that was the old Duke himself, – who during the last two years had been constantly urgent with his friend not to retire! How often since he had taken office had the conscientious and timid Minister begged of his friend permission to abandon his high office! But that permission had always been refused, and now, for the last three months, the request had not been repeated. The Duchess probably was right in saying that her husband ‘didn’t want to give it up now’.
But he, the Duke of St Bungay, had brought his friend into the trouble, and it was certainly his duty to extricate him from it The admonition might come in the rude shape of repeated minorities in the House of Commons. Hitherto the number of votes at the command of the Ministry had not been very much impaired. A few always fall off as time goes on. Aristides10 becomes too just, and the mind of man is greedy of novelty. Sir Orlando, also, had taken with him a few, and it may be that two or three had told themselves that there could not be all that smoke raised by the People’s Banner, without some fire below it. But there was a good working majority, – very much at Mr Monk’s command, – and Mr Monk was moved by none of that feeling of rebellion which had urged Sir Orlando on to his destruction. It was difficult to find a cause for resignation. And yet the Duke of St Bungay, who had watched the House of Commons closely for nearly half a century, was aware that the Coalition which he had created had done its work, and was almost convinced that it would not be permitted to remain very much longer in power. He had seen symptoms of impatience in Mr Daubeny, and Mr Gresham had snorted once and twice, as though eager for the battle.
CHAPTER 64
The New K.G.
Early in June had died the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. In all England there was no older family than that of the Fichy Fidgetts, whose baronial castle of Fichy Fellows is still kept up, the glory of archaeologists and the
charm of tourists. Some people declare it to be the most perfect castle residence in the country. It is admitted to have been completed in the time of Edward VI, and is thought to have been commenced in the days of Edward I. It has always belonged to the Fichy Fidgett family, who with a persistence that is becoming rarer every day, has clung to every acre that it ever owned, and has added acre to acre in every age. The consequence has been that the existing Marquis of Mount Fidgett has always been possessed of great territorial influence, and has been flattered, cajoled, and revered by one Prime Minister after another. Now the late Marquis had been, as was the custom with the Fichy Fidgetts, a man of pleasure. If the truth may be spoken openly, it should be admitted that he had been a man of sin. The duty of keeping together the family property he had performed with a perfect zeal. It had always been acknowledged on behalf of the existing Marquis, that in whatever manner he might spend his money, however base might be the gullies into which his wealth descended, he never spent more than he had to spend. Perhaps there was but little praise in this, as he could hardly have got beyond his enormous income unless he had thrown it away on race-courses and roulette tables. But it had long been remarked of the Mount Fidgett marquises that they were too wise to gamble. The family had not been an honour to the country, but had nevertheless been honoured by the country. The man who had just died had perhaps been as selfish and as sensual a brute as had ever disgraced humanity; – but nevertheless he had been a Knight of the Garter. He had been possessed of considerable parliamentary interest, and the Prime Minister of the day had not dared not to make him a Knight of the Garter. All the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had for many years past been Knights of the Garter. On the last occasion a good deal had been said about it. A feeling had even then begun to prevail that the highest personal honour in the gift of the Crown should not be bestowed upon a man whose whole life was a disgrace, and who did indeed seem to deserve every punishment which human or divine wrath could inflict. He had a large family, but they were all illegitimate. Wives generally he liked, but of his own wife he very soon broke the heart. Of all the companies with which he consorted he was the admitted king, but his subjects could do no man any honour. The Castle of Fichy Fellows was visited by the world at large, but no man or woman with a character to lose went into any house really inhabited by the Marquis. And yet he had become a Knight of the Garter, and was therefore, presumably, one of those noble Englishmen to whom the majesty of the day was willing to confide the honour, and glory, and safety of the Crown. There were many who disliked this. That a base reprobate should become a Marquis and a peer of Parliament was in accordance with the constitution of the country. Marquises and peers are not as a rule reprobates, and the misfortune was one which could not be avoided. He might have ill-used his own wife and other wives’ husbands without special remark, had he not been made a Knight of the Garter. The Minister of the day, however, had known the value of the man’s support, and, being thick-skinned, had lived through the reproaches uttered without much damage to himself. Now the wicked Marquis was dead, and it was the privilege and the duty of the Duke of Omnium to select another Knight.
There was a good deal said about it at the time. There was a rumour, – no doubt a false rumour, – that the Crown insisted in this instance on dictating a choice to the Duke of Omnium. But even were it so, the Duke could not have been very much aggrieved, as the choice dictated was supposed to be that of himself. The late Duke had been a Knight, and when he had died, it was thought that his successor would succeed also to the ribbon. The new Duke had been at that time in the Cabinet, and had remained there, but had accepted an office inferior in rank to that which he had formerly filled. The whole history of these things has been written, and may be read by the curious. The Duchess, newly a duchess then and very keen in reference to her husband’s rank, had instigated him to demand the ribbon as his right. This he had not only declined to do, but had gone out of the way to say that he thought it should be bestowed elsewhere. It had been bestowed elsewhere, and there had been a very general feeling that he had been passed over because his easy temperament in such matters had been seen and utilized. Now, whether the Crown interfered or not, – a matter on which no one short of a writer of newspaper articles dares to make a suggestion till time shall have made mellow the doings of sovereigns and their ministers, – the suggestion was made. The Duke of St Bungay ventured to say to his friend that no other selection was possible.
‘Recommend her Majesty to give it to myself!’ said the Prime Minister.
‘You will find it to be her Majesty’s wish. It has been very common. Sir Robert Walpole had it.’11
‘I am not Sir Robert Walpole.’ The Duke named other examples of Prime Ministers who had been gartered by themselves. But our Prime Minister declared it to be out of the question. No honour of that description should be conferred upon him as long as he held his present position. The old Duke was much in earnest, and there was a great deal said on the subject, – but at last it became clear, not only to him, but to the members of the Cabinet generally, and then to the outside world, that the Prime Minister would not consent to accept the vacant honour.
For nearly a month after this the question subsided. A Minister is not bound to bestow a Garter the day after it becomes vacant. There are other Knights to guard the throne, and one may be spared for a short interval. But during that interval many eyes were turned towards the stall in St George’s Chapel. A good thing should be given away like a clap of thunder if envy, hatred, and malice are to be avoided. A broad blue ribbon across the chest is of all decorations the most becoming, or, at any rate, the most desired. And there was, I fear, an impression on the minds of some men that the Duke in such matters was weak and might be persuaded. Then there came to him an application in the form of a letter from the new Marquis of Mount Fidgett, – a man whom he had never seen, and of whom he had never heard. The new Marquis had hitherto resided in Italy, and men only knew of him that he was odious to his uncle. But he had inherited all the Fichy Fidgett estates, and was now possessed of immense wealth and great honour. He ventured, he said, to represent to the Prime Minister that for generations past the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had been honoured by the Garter. His political status in the country was exactly that enjoyed by his late uncle; but he intended that his political career should be very different. He was quite prepared to support the Coalition. ‘What is he that he should expect to be made a Knight of the Garter?’ said our Duke to the old Duke.
‘He is the Marquis of Mount Fidgett, and next to yourself, perhaps, the richest peer of Great Britain.’
‘Have riches anything to do with it?’
‘Something certainly. You would not name a pauper peer.’
‘Yes; – if he was a man whose career had been highly honourable to the country. Such a man, of course, could not be a pauper, but I do not think his want of wealth should stand in the way of his being honoured by the Garter.’
‘Wealth, rank, and territorial influence have been generally thought to have something to do with it.’
‘And character nothing!’
‘My dear Duke, I have not said so.’
‘Something very much like it, my friend, if you advocate the claim of the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. Did you approve of the selection of the late Marquis?’
‘I was in the Cabinet at the time, and will therefore say nothing against it. But I have never heard anything against this man’s character.’
‘Nor in favour of it. To my thinking he has as much claim, and no more, as that man who just opened the door. He was never seen in the Lower House.’
‘Surely that cannot signify.’
‘You think, then, that he should have it?’
‘You know what I think,’ said the elder statesman thoughtfully. ‘In my opinion there is no doubt that you would best consult the honour of the country by allowing her Majesty to bestow this act of grace upon a subject who has deserved so well from her Majesty as yourself.’
�
�It is quite impossible.’
‘It seems to me,’ said the Duke, not appearing to notice the refusal of his friend, ‘that in this peculiar position you should allow yourself to be persuaded to lay aside your own feeling. No man of high character is desirous of securing to himself decorations which he may bestow upon others.’
‘Just so.’
‘But here the decoration bestowed upon the chief whom we all follow, would confer a wider honour upon many than it could do if given to anyone else.’
‘The same may be said of any Prime Minister.’
‘Not so. A commoner, without high permanent rank or large fortune, is not lowered in the world’s esteem by not being of the Order. You will permit me to say – that a Duke of Omnium has not reached that position which he ought to enjoy unless he be a Knight of the Garter.’ It must be borne in mind that the old Duke, who used this argument, had himself worn the ribbon for the last thirty years. ‘But if –’
‘Well; – well.’
‘But if you are, – I must call it obstinate.’
‘I am obstinate in that respect’
‘Then,’ said the Duke of St Bungay, ‘I should recommend her Majesty to give it to the Marquis.’
‘Never,’ said the Prime Minister, with very unaccustomed energy. ‘I will never sanction the payment of such a price for services which should never be bought or sold.’
‘It would give no offence.’
‘That is not enough, my friend. Here is a man of whom I only know that he has bought a great many marble statues. He has done nothing for his country, and nothing for his sovereign.’
‘If you are determined to look to what you call desert alone, I would name Lord Drummond.’ The Prime Minister frowned and looked unhappy. It was quite true that Lord Drummond had contradicted him, and that he had felt the injury grievously. ‘Lord Drummond has been very true to us.’
‘Yes; – true to us! What is that?’
‘He is in every respect a man of character, and well looked upon in the country. There would be some enmity and a good deal of envy – which might be avoided by either of the other courses I have proposed; but those courses you will not take. I take it for granted that you are anxious to secure the support of those who generally act with Lord Drummond.’
THE PRIME MINISTER Page 67